Get Out Alive
by bookgodess15
Summary: Mrs. House, I'm so sorry... Your son, Gregory, has gone missing—he and two other doctors haven't been seen since yesterday morning. No, we don't know if he's alive. If you could come down to the station to look at some photos...
1. Of Disappearances

**Author's Notes: **Hello all! Welcome to my new story - it's all written up, and it a grand total of six chapter long. Going to focus on everyone except Foreman, and it takes place before the Season 3 Finale (though at an undetermined time other than that). A big, enormous thank you to my beta reader **East-Wing-Witch, **who has helped me endlessly with my grammar and poked holes in the weak parts of my plot. Thank you! And... I guess that's about it, so enjoy!

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 1  
_(Of Disappearances)_  
**

Wilson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He'd already honked twice, so he knew that House was either purposely taking forever to grate upon his nerves, or he was laying in his apartment dead. The former was much more likely, so in his irritation, Wilson let himself be sucked into House's little game and honked the horn again. House was on his last nerve, which was rapidly fraying. Watching the door of 221B, there was no turning of the knob to signal House's final departure and so Wilson sat back in his seat and cast his eyes up to ceiling, praying to God for patience so that he would not just leave his friend stranded for the day.

"C'mon, House," he muttered, giving the door another exasperated glance. He had half a mind to march up there and start banging on the door.

Wilson resisted the urge to honk again. It was obviously having no effect on House's pace and served only to prove that House was getting under his skin—a favorite pastime.

His cell phone rang.

Wilson scrambled to answer it, grateful for the distraction from his frustrations. He pulled the phone out and flipped it open, when horror struck him as he realized that it was probably going to be Cuddy, demanded to know where the hell he was. He swallowed and greeted the caller with a polite hello.

"Dr. Wilson?" came a hesitant, Australian-accented voice.

"Good morning, Chase," Wilson said pleasantly, relaxing as he realized that he was not going to have his ear chewed off. "I'm sorry that House isn't there yet, he's being a—"

"I'm not calling because of House," Chase interrupted, and he sounded almost apologetic. "I kind of need a ride to work. Someone slashed my tires last night, and the next bus doesn't come until ten. I've already called Cameron and Foreman, but they've left already…"

Wilson hesitated for a minute, thinking of how long it would take him to get Chase, factoring in the remaining amount of time that it was going to take House to move his sorry ass out of the house. "Sure," he said finally, taking a small amount of vindictive glee at how irate House was going to be when Wilson told him that they were going to have to make a side trip. "Where do you live?"

Chase gave him his address and thanked him profusely, and Wilson was just beginning to assure him that it would be no trouble at all on his part and that he should feel free to call anytime, when House made his jubilant exit from his apartment. At long last. Wilson told Chase that he would be there in ten minutes, said his goodbyes, and was turning off the phone just as House was climbing into the car.

"Who were you talking to?" House asked, shutting the door and setting his cane down in between the seats. Wilson noticed that his eyes and nose were slightly red, and his voice was scratchy, as if he were sick. "Ex-wife?"

"Taxi service—they'll be picking you up in the mornings, so you can make _them_ wait a half hour while you take your dear sweet time getting ready," Wilson said pointedly, backing out of his spot.

"Hardy, har, har." House rolled his eyes and sniffed, exhibiting a severely stuffed nose. "Seriously. And why are you going this way? Did you forget? The hospital's the other way."

"I know that," Wilson said patiently. "That was Chase on the phone. His tires got slashed last night and he needs a ride to work."

"And you said _yes_?" House asked, as if this act of stupidity merited a Darwin Award.

"Yes, I did," Wilson said calmly. "I like Chase and I don't have a problem with lending him a hand when he asks for it." He paused at a traffic light and went over Chase's address in his head once more.

"Well, we're going to be late now," House grumbled, staring out the window. He sneezed twice in a rather obnoxious fashion, and then opened Wilson's glove box and began pawing through its contents. "Don't you have any tissues?"

"We were going to be late anyways," Wilson told him. The light finally turned green and he pulled into a sharp left turn. "And I don't think I have any tissues... Sorry. Is it your allergies, or it just a cold? I could write you a scrip for Clarinex when we get to the hospital, if that's it." Wilson offered this hesitantly, knowing that House would probably laugh at him.

As he predicted, House snorted. "I don't need Clarinex," he scoffed. "It's just a cold."

"I'm only offering," Wilson said, slowing the car and craning his neck to look around for Chase's apartment building. "It is springtime, after all. Perfectly plausible that you—"

"There's the wombat," House interrupted, pointing to Chase, who was shutting the door to his apartment with his back to the street. "And I don't have allergies. I can't believe you don't keep tissues in your car. What do you do when you've gotta hock a lugie?"

"House, that's disgusting!" Wilson said, revolted.

He pulled over to the side of the road, near Chase's apartment, and honked to let Chase know where he was. House continued to tear up the car in search of tissues, and Wilson didn't even try to dissuade him from his pursuits when House snatched Wilson's bag and began shifting through it. He sat back and waved at Chase as he approached the car.

"Morning," Chase said as he got in the backseat. "Didn't know that you had House with you." Clearly, he was wondering if this was a customary ritual but didn't feel comfortable enough to voice the question. Wilson answered it for him.

"He requested a chauffeur this morning," Wilson said as he shifted gears and pulled out onto the road. He didn't mention that House had called him this morning, his voice somewhat desolate as he tried to beg for a ride without explaining that his leg was killing him and he couldn't ride his bike. Wilson had beat it out of him, though, and agreed to drive him to work.

"Hey, Chase," House spoke up as shut Wilson's bag and put it back after ascertaining that it did not harbor any tissues. "You got a tissue?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, use your damn sleeve! It's not like you give a crap whether your shirt gets stained with snot."

"I like this shirt," House said. "So how about it, Chase?"

Chase shook his head. "Sorry."

House turned around and stuck his tongue out at him, but his eyes quickly darted to the van that was driving behind them. Chase, puzzled, also turned around to see what House was looking at while Wilson glanced at it in the rearview mirror.

"Wasn't that van behind us on the way here?" House said, studying it intently.

Wilson snorted. "C'mon House. I'm going to have to cut you off from _24_ if you start getting paranoid on me."

Chase hid a smile by ducking down, and House turned around and sat back in his seat with a slight huff. "It _was_," he whined, not appreciating the smothered laughter that was coming up at his suggestion. "Look, it's following us now!"

"Chase, is there something you want to tell us?" Wilson asked, snickering as he saw House's frustration. It was rare that he got the upper hand in these situations. "A hidden past, maybe?"

"Yeah," Chase said with a grin. "That's why I left Australia—I got involved with this gang and now they're here to track me down. Guess I forgot to mention that—sorry guys."

"Maybe we should write down the license plate number," Wilson added.

"But what if the plates are stolen?" Chase said, pretending to be worried over this.

"You're all hilarious," House snapped, scowling and refusing to even consider the idea that he sounded ridiculous.

Wilson landed a few more jibes, but put them to rest as he realized that the van did appear to be following them. It had yet to make a different turn or be more than two or three cars away from them, but he brushed it off as nothing. The van looked like a worker's van, the kind that held carpet cleaning supplies or folded up ladders and toolboxes, so he supposed that it could have been maintenance men coming to the hospital to repair an air conditioner or something.

This checked out when he pulled into the hospital parking lot, and the dark van came in behind him.

"Told you it was following us," House said smugly as Wilson found a parking spot. "You gotta have faith, Wilson."

"Sure," Wilson said, rolling his eyes for what was probably the fifth time that morning. He shut off the car and pushed open his door. "They're probably just here to do some work."

"Funny place to park," House remarked as he came out of the car.

Both Chase and Wilson looked back to see the van stopped in the aisle about fifty feet away from where they'd parked. Chase had a wry smile on his face as he turned around to face House, who was looking at them as if they were about to agree that the van had most certainly been following them. But Wilson said nothing and let Chase say it.

"You're getting paranoid, House," he said, passing House to get up onto the sidewalk and start walking towards the hospital.

"Hey, just you're paranoid doesn't mean that they've not been planning your demise," House called, hurrying to catch up with him and defend his reasoning. Wilson followed, shaking his head at his friend's antics. "Just ask Caesar."

"Only you're not trying to become king of the United States," Wilson reminded him.

"Well, _duh_," House said without turning around. He'd fallen in step with Chase. "Then how would I control all those other countries?"

"Ah. The next Hitler, right?" Wilson said with a knowing nod.

"Please. The man had no military tactics whatsoever. I mean, really, you don't _invade_ Russia in the summer so that you end up stuck there in the winter. Honestly. I'd rather be Napoleon," House said confidently. They were passing by the dark van now, and Wilson could see the driver leaning over something.

"But Napoleon tried to invade Russia, too," Chase said, his tone unsure, as if he didn't want to call House out on something only to have it shoved up his ass if he were to be wrong.

"Fine. Alexander the Great," House conceded impatiently. "_He_ kept his sorry Macedonian butt away from Russia."

Wilson opened his mouth to retort that Alexander the Great hadn't even been able to get to India in his world-conquest, when suddenly the driver of the van threw his door open, and a bang like a firework made him jump and cringe, putting his hands over his head.

He knew that sound. A gun.

Wilson's ears rang with the echo of the shot, and he looked up with the sort of dim, reflexive realization that guns shooting meant dead people, that his eyes were going to see a stunned Chase laying on the ground, or a gasping House on the sidewalk. But when brought his head up there were no bloody bodies laying on the ground. House and Chase were standing there, as stunned as he was, and it was only after he was able to discern that both were unharmed did he turn to stare at the driver of the van.

He was a tall man with a baseball cap shading his face, and a gun held in his right hand.

"Get in the van," he said in a loud, calm voice that barely registered in Wilson's ears. "Now. Or the next shot will hit something important."

Wilson stared at him stupidly for a minute.

"What the—" House started to say, but then the sound of the hammer being pulled back made him shut his mouth.

Dimly, Wilson thought, _I ought to try that sometime..._ Paralyzed with the fear, the knowledge that this was really happening, he could only stand there and stare at Chase, whose eyes were wide with sheer and unadulterated terror. Then a second _BANG!_ startled him into motion.

"We're going! We're going!" he said frantically, grabbing Chase's and House's hands and pulling them with him, for Chase was utterly frozen and House was looking like he was ready to say something more.

The man did not waver as his gun followed the trio. "Get in the back of the van."

Wilson let go of House's hand and fumbled with the latch on the back of the vehicle, managing to pull is open after a second or so, and he swung the two doors open. Wilson clamored into the back of the van and watched as Chase and House followed in suit, his heart pounding and his mind swimming with a lack of thoughts but for _I'm being kidnapped_. The doors were slammed shut.

_I'm being kidnapped_...

* * *

It was not even noon, and Cuddy was already looking forward to her lunch break. Her shoes, which had been purchased last night, were proving to be more painful to break in than she'd thought they would be, and she was planning on using her break to run home to get another pair of shoes before her feet fell off. But strangely enough, save for her shoe catastrophe, the first two hours of her day had been unsettlingly quiet. There was no House running amuck in the halls, ready to do brain surgery on an infant without parental consent... and this had her worried. Cuddy told herself that House was just having a peaceful day, but after nearly five years of his antics, she was more than wary of her sudden vacation. 

She was on the third page of seven of a malpractice form when her door was opened and Dr. Allison Cameron walked in. Surprised, Cuddy quickly realized that her little break was over, and House had definitely done something now.

"Hello, Dr. Cameron," she said as Cameron approached her desk. "What can I do for you?"

Cameron paused, two feet short of the desk, and stared at Cuddy's nameplate for a minute, and then she met Cuddy's eyes. "Do you know where House is?" she asked.

Cuddy frowned. This was not good.

"No," she said carefully, studying Cameron. "Why?"

"Because he's not here," Cameron said frankly. "And neither are Chase or Wilson."

"That's strange," Cuddy said. She was stating the obvious, yes, but this was perplexing. She could see House mysteriously disappearing, but Wilson and Chase were both dependable employees and would have had the decency to at least phone in to say that they were sick, or otherwise occupied. And besides this, why hadn't anyone bother to tell her that the Head of Oncology hadn't shown up for work? There must have been at least ten missed appointments, and Wilson was well-like enough to have had someone notice that he wasn't around. "Have you tried calling them?" she finally suggested.

Cameron nodded. "We tried House's cell phone and his pager, and I tried to reach Chase but neither Foreman nor I had Wilson's number... We tried paging him, though," she added, a little brightly. "But..." The moment of brightness left. "Nothing. I was hoping that you could try Wilson."

Cuddy nodded, her hand reaching for the phone. She knew Wilson's number without having to look it up and punched it in, bringing the phone to her ear and listening to the ring. It rang five... six... seven... eight times, and then an answering machine came on and asked her if she wanted to leave a voice mail or a text message, at which point she hung up.

Frustrated, she took a moment to stare down at her desk and wonder at the likely scenarios. "Nothing," she said after a minute, and Cameron's shoulders slumped. "I don't know why I still keep that idiot around—I swear House costs me more money than any other doctor in this hospital."

Cameron frowned. "You think that this is House's fault?" she asked, the possibility apparently mystifying.

"Yes. It's the only thing that makes sense. I mean, if it were anything else, I'm sure that one of the other two would have called in to say something…" Cuddy said, now talking to herself. "House probably has them gallivanting off to Vegas for the week or something. It wouldn't be atypical of him... Yes. That's it. If they don't come to work tomorrow, then we'll worry about it."

Cameron took this as her cue to leave, and did so. Cuddy sat back in her chair, planning on giving House an earful when he showed up tomorrow with whatever feeble explanation he'd came up with on the ride to work. She really _hated_ him some days.


	2. Of Duress

**Author's Notes: **Well, here we are - it's Thursday! Wow, it feels like _ages_ ago that I posted Chapter 1. I can't imagine how all of you guys feel... Anyways, thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, and I hope that everyone does the same for this one. Here, we learn some things, and the humorous tone that was in the first chapter is now going away. For good. Sorry to you all who liked it, but it just doesn't work. So... enjoy!

* * *

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 2  
_(Of Duress)_  
**

"How long do you think we've been down here?"

"An hour, maybe," Wilson replied without even sparing Chase a glance.

Chase clenched his jaw instead of groaning, and compromised with his urge to beat his head against the wall by resting his forehead against it with a sigh. He closed his eyes, wishing that he were at work, home, back in Australia—_anywhere_ but here—and trying to simultaneously drown out the whistling of the wind. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't here, that he was just dreaming, but it wasn't working.

He, Wilson and House had been hauled unceremoniously out of the back of the van after a long drive that made House nearly pass out from pain halfway through, for the road was extremely bumpy and none of them were sitting in proper seats. They were given a brief glimpse of endless stretches of farmland before being forced, at gunpoint again, into an underground storm shelter. The man had left them there and had yet to return.

The room was about the size of a small walk-in closet, made of cold grey concrete, and there were no windows or other holes save for the trapdoor at the top, which was made of steel or some other metal. There was a sole, dingy light bulb affixed to the ceiling, and though it did provide dim light, it did nothing to add to the warmth of the room. Frankly, it was freezing.

The terror had died in Chase some time ago. Perhaps it was the absence of the man, or perhaps it was simply the fact that eventually all fear will die, but either way, the heart-clutching, throat-constricting, nauseating terror had dissipated and left him feeling hollow.

He was being held captive.

The man had a gun.

It was most likely that he was going to die, here, with only his boss and his boss's best friend to cling to.

These facts beat against his brain like a man on the glass front of a store after it had closed. They were distant, muted, and had not fully penetrated their way into his mind as of yet, and Chase was glad of it. The thought of death, of being murdered, had been so far away and beyond imagining this morning, and Chase longed for the security of that again. His mind fought with itself, wondering if the man had put up a ransom or if the police had begun to investigate their disappearance. Surely they would find the man, arrest him and discover them in this little vault before anything bad could happen. That's the way it always worked out.

If the man had put up a ransom, then they would definitely know that they were being held captive. The police would get together and promise to pay the ransom, and they would create a set up where they pretended to give him money but would instead arrest him. Then they would find them, safe and sound, and everything would blow over with time. Maybe he'd learn why… But Chase didn't find that he cared about the why. What did it matter why some man had kidnapped him? All that would matter would be that he was alive. He wouldn't ask for anything more.

What was more important was what would happen to him next. Would they just be kept here, or was this some kind of temporary holding place, an in between for the longer plan. Maybe when he was transferring them, they might be able… But there were three of them. It would be next to impossible to get all three of them to safety. The police would probably find them before that, though.

"Keep pacing, Chase. Your feet'll wear a hole in the floor, and then maybe we'll get out of here," House commented from where he was slumped against the wall, his bad leg jutting out and taking up a good third of the space in the tiny cellar.

"Shut up," Chase snapped, but he stopped pacing. He hadn't even realized that his feet had begun to walk about the area, he'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts.

"Come over here and make me, blondie," House retorted, but beneath the challenge, his voice was thick with pain. Chase had watched him take two more Vicodin not fifteen minutes ago, but they had clearly done no good.

"Cool it," Wilson said. He had his back to a wall and had his eyes shut, as if he was either in deep thought or had a headache. "Fighting isn't going to make anything better."

"Give it a rest, Wilson," House said crabbily, and his hands began to rub at his thigh gently. "Nobody cares."

Wilson's eyes opened, as if a sudden thought had just occurred. "I might..." Wilson trailed off, his face lighting up with excitement as he started digging his hands into his pockets. "My phone! I might be able to get a signal and call for help!"

"You think of this now?"

"Shut up, Chase," Wilson muttered, his fingers trembling as he pulled out his phone. "Oh please, oh please..." He held it carefully and waited while it turned on, and the entire room waited anxiously to see what would happen, if they had a prayer of surviving. "Please, please, please..." The LCD screen lit up, inordinately bright in the tiny cell, and then Wilson's hand rapidly went slack on the phone and it fell to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Chase asked furiously, scrambling to get down on his knees to pick up the phone. "That could be our—" He stopped speaking as he saw what the screen read.

_Low Battery_

It took up the entirety of the screen, and pushing the buttons did nothing to make the white screen go away. The battery was too low for it to work.

"Perfect," he said tightly, and it took all of his self-will not to throw the phone at the wall and start screaming. It was finally beginning to sink into his head that he was going to _die_. His life would be over, here within these cement walls, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was only a matter of time before the man returned, and Chase wondered how long he had left. Was it in hours? Days? Would they be kept down here for months, years? It wasn't... _fair._

"Just fucking perfect," he said, and his control shattered as he threw the phone down to the ground where little it broke with a sharp crack. "You couldn't have charged the batteries, could you? If you'd just put it on the charger for _five more minutes_, we could be free! We wouldn't be sitting here like—like—animals, waiting to die! Would it have killed you to—"

"Don't put this on me! If we hadn't gone to pick _you_ up," Wilson pointed an accusing finger at him, leveling a stare, "we would have never even gotten here in the first place. This is _not_ my fault."

"And maybe," House spoke up from his corner of the room, "If the both of you hadn't made fun of me, we would have been in the hospital right now. But we're _not_, so fucking deal with it!" He sucked in a breath to say more, but choked and started coughing horribly.

Wilson and Chase both temporarily forgot their anger as they stared at House, who they suddenly noticed, was not looking very good. His face shone with sweat, his skin had lost color, and his cough was not a dry smoker's cough. It was wet and tangled with mucus.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, crouching down to put his hand against House's forehead. "Can you tell me what hurts?"

Chase got down on his knees to get a better view of his boss's face.

"'m fine. Go away." But House's eyes were slightly unfocused, and his breathing was clearly labored. His mouth was partly open, allowing him to breath, and he appeared to be shivering despite the sheen of sweat that glistened on his face. Wilson's hand was pressed to House's forehead, and he removed it as he turned to look at Chase.

"He's got a fever," Wilson said, his words terse because they both knew what that meant.

House was sick. He needed antibiotics, bed rest, regular meals, lots of fluids, a cold compress... but he was going to get none of that as long he was sick down here. The cold temperatures and lack of food or drink would only make him worse as the cold progressed. And they were helpless to do anything about it.

* * *

Cameron was not someone who did things halfway. When she wanted something done, she carried it out until it was _finished_, and then she would do a follow up to be sure. This was probably the main reason that House had hired her, and kept her around despite her innate moralistic code, which she knew that he hated. But he would be thanking her, she was sure, that her innate moralistic code did not exclude helping people who were in trouble. Particularly, people who had gone mysteriously missing. 

She was standing in a precinct that smelled of lemon and cough syrup, waiting for the detective to come back. It was late evening. She'd come here straight after her shift ended, stomach churning, with every intent of finding the three missing men. So when the detective appeared from a hall in the back, Cameron straightened and straightened her skirt to make a good impression.

"Good evening, ma'am," the detective said as he approached her, holding out a hand. He was a short man with a Mexican look to him, and the only visible hair on his head was a neatly-trimmed moustache. He didn't even have eyebrows. "I'm Detective Morgan."

Cameron smiled and took his hand. "Allison Cameron—it's nice to meet you." Detective Morgan gestured at a chair next to what must have been his desk, but Cameron shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks. I wanted to... Well, three of my co-workers are missing."

If Detective Morgan had any eyebrows, they would have raised up at her words. But he did not, so the skin where they would have been raised up instead. "Three of them? Do they know each other?"

"Yes," Cameron said, feeling a wave of relief that someone was taking interest in this. Cuddy had brushed her off and Foreman had dismissed it as another Housian stunt, but now she had someone on her side. "It's my boss, his friend and my colleague. They didn't show up for work this morning, and it's just so unlike them to not—"

"Wait," Detective Morgan said, raising a hand. "They only went missing this morning?"

Cameron paused, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Well, yes—but it's just so unusual! I mean, they're all—"

"I'm sure," Detective Morgan said sympathetically. "But there's nothing I can do until they've been gone of twenty-four hours. Did you check their homes? Call their relatives?"

"No..." Cameron said, now feeling a bit like an idiot. "But I don't feel like I know them well enough to start... calling around..."

Detective Morgan gave her an understanding smile. "Okay. Well, give that a shot, and if they aren't anywhere by tomorrow morning, you can come down here and we can really do something about it. I'm sorry, Dr. Cameron, but we just get too many instances where people run away for a day or so, and we couldn't possibly handle all of those cases."

Swallowing, Cameron tried to retain a few shreds of her dignity. "I understand. I'm sorry to have bothered you, and I'll be sure to check their houses and call their families. Thank you for your time."

She left the precinct, feeling foolish for making a big deal out of nothing. She wasn't going to go running after House—Cuddy and Foreman were probably right. House, Wilson and Chase were probably counting their winnings from a night on the casino in Vegas right now. Feeling comforted, Cameron went home that night without any plans of trying to find the three missing men. Let them have their fun.

* * *

Chase knew that what he'd seen earlier—endless acres of farmland—meant that even if they screamed through a bullhorn, no one would ever be able to hear a cry for help. He imagined that Wilson must know this, too. But it didn't change the fact that House was rapidly deteriorating and they were all going to die regardless, and that was why they were shouting for help. 

"Anyone! Anyone out there—help! _Help!_ We're stuck here!" Wilson was bellowing, cupping his hands around his mouth and standing directly below the steel door in the ceiling. His shouts ricocheted about the concrete room uselessly and House moaned, probably in response to the loud noises, but it could have been in pain. Chase hadn't dared to give him a Vicodin while House was so incoherent.

"Hey! Get us out of here!" Chase shouted, but he knew that his shouts were going nowhere beyond this tiny box in the ground. "Help! You've got to..." He paused to take a breath, but never finished his sentence and abruptly gave up. "This is stupid," he said, his shoulders slumping. "No one's going to hear us."

"We've got to try," Wilson said, looking irritated that Chase would give up so quickly. "I'm not going to sit here like—like a pig in a slaughterhouse! There's always a chance that someone will hear us."

Chase glanced over to House. "He looks worse," he said, using it as a diversion from the conversation. House really did look much worse, despite the coat that Chase had given up for him. He was half asleep, and with his eyes barely cracked open, House was mumbling to himself incoherently and massaging his thigh incessantly. "We've got to find a way to help him."

Wilson stared at him incredulously. "What do you want to do? Have you got a water bottle in your pocket? Or some antibiotics? Because if you've been holding out on us, then please, whenever you deign to—"

He stopped speaking as a sound came from above. There was the groan and screech of metal being scraped across metal, and Chase realized that it was coming from the trapdoor. Someone was opening it!

"Hey! We're down here! Help us!" he shouted, completely forgetting about House as he felt a burst of excitement. Someone had heard them, they were going to open the hatch and they would all be free. They weren't going to die.

With a great sound, the metal hatch above them opened and revealed not a shining sun, but the dark sky of night. Chase blinked in surprise—how long had they been down here? Was it evening already? Was it early morning? But that didn't matter anymore, because they were being rescued right now.

"If I see any of you, I'm going to shoot you."

Chase's heart dropped into the bottom of his stomach as he realized that it was him. The man. He was back, and they weren't being rescued... they were about to be killed.

"So stay where you are."

Chase swallowed, furious with himself for being so idiotically hopeful.

"If you're going to kill us, then just do it!" Wilson said defiantly, and Chase stared at him with wide eyes. What the hell was he _doing_?

"Only one of you is going to die," the man said, his voice flat.

"Which one?" Wilson demanded, while House continued to mumble and Chase tried to quell the rising panic in the pit of his stomach. "Why take all three of us if you only want one?"

"Because you're going to decide who will die—once you have, the other two will be released."

There was a resounding silence.

"You—you want _us_ to chose?" Wilson said finally, his voice trembling. "But we can't—"

"You can. If you want to live," the man said. "Let me know when you've made your choice."

There was a deafening bang as the hatch was slammed shut, and then a twisting as it was locked. Chase met Wilson's eyes, his brain processing the situation that he was facing without really providing comprehension. The question was, which was worse? Being killed, or choosing to kill someone else?


	3. Of Decisions

**Author's Notes:** Hello! Yes, as some of you have discerned, the plot for this story was borrowed from an episode of _Criminal Minds_. I apologize to all of you who have seen it, because this story is going to mirror it. I was really just looking to write a story that featured the House-Wilson-Chase dynamic without involving romance, and this was too perfect to pass up. So I'm sorry, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 3  
_(Of Decisions)_  
**

It was late.

At least, that was Wilson's guess. He had no real idea what time it was, but he'd tried to keep a mental clock since the hatch had opened, revealing the night sky that indicated that he had been trapped down in this box for over eighteen hours. The cell phone, which Chase had smashed in his anger, had been kicked to the side and only a few of the plastic shards that had broken off remained in the center of the room. When Wilson went near them, he made a point to step on them.

House was fading in and out of consciousness with an occasional groan, and Chase was sitting next to him, dozing lightly. Wilson was pacing the room, trying to see a way out of this mess. He was alone in this battle—House was too sick to even raise his head, let alone brainstorm, and Chase... He was still a kid. How old was he? Twenty-five, twenty-six? A mere child, and Wilson wouldn't lay that on him. But this unfortunately meant that he was stuck with the responsibility of... choosing. Making the decision of who would walk out of here and who wouldn't.

"This is insane," Wilson muttered, turning sharply to retrace his steps. "Fucking _insane_."

The man had to be sick, twisted, like the serial killers from all of those _CSI_ and _Law & Order_ shows that he and House had watched. Laughed at, even. But no one was laughing now—this was _real_. There were no commercial breaks, no team of cops that was looking for them and interviewing people, finding leads and closing in on the killer.

"Hey Wilson," Chase suddenly said, blinking his eyes as he attempted to focus on the other man. Wilson's words must have woken him up. "In America, what do they do for missing people?"

Wilson paused to stare at him in surprise. He hadn't expected Chase to wake up anytime soon. "They..." He trailed off, thinking it over. "When a person has been missing for more than 24 hours, they start—"

"Wait," Chase said, his face quickly filling with despair. "They won't start looking for you until you've been gone for _twenty-four hours_? What the... Hell, we're going to be dead by then!"

"No, we're not," Wilson said immediately, and then he realized what his words had implied, but it was too late.

"So you've made the decision, then?" Chase demanded, his voice sharp with anger. "You're going to let House die? Since when was it up to _you_?"

"Do you want to decide?" Wilson asked, fury rising as he realized that Chase was blaming _him_. "Fine! Go ahead, Chase—who do you want to die, if not House? Me? Yourself?"

"None of us," Chase said stubbornly. He was in denial, he was distancing himself from the situation and forcing himself to think that there was still hope. Naivety was the answer.

"So what do you want to do, Chase? We're going to sit down here and starve if we don't make a decision soon!" Wilson wished abruptly that House wake up and play mediator, calm them down and work this through. House was the genius here. His mind worked in ways that Wilson could only imagine, and it would certainly be able to figure a way out of this... But House was delirious, certainly in no shape to think about outsmarting the twisted bastard that was holding them captive.

"We can think of something," Chase said, desperately trying to reason. "He obviously gets a kick out this, these psychological mind games, and maybe if we don't play along then he'll get tired of us and let us go."

"Or," Wilson countered, "maybe he'll get tired of us and shoot all three of us! And I have no intention of dying here!"

"Oh, so I do?" Chase asked. "You think that I don't want to get out here? And what about House? Are you going to let him die just because he had the misfortune to get sick? If he was coherent, I know that he wouldn't be volunteering to die—we can't go against that!"

"But he's _not_ coherent!" Wilson shouted, words flying from his mouth. "If he doesn't get help soon, he's going to die anyway!"

What the hell? _Anyways_? Since when had he decided that House was the one that they were going to give up? That couldn't be—House was his friend! How the hell could he have just said that?

"That's crazy," Chase said, putting a hand on House's shoulder and glaring at Wilson. "I won't let you kill House."

Wilson closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, his head spinning and his stomach churning. What was he supposed to do?

* * *

The next morning, when House, Chase and Wilson did not show up for work, Cameron was not worried. She had told herself that the three were just out on another crazy escapade—though Chase had never been included in the House-Wilson friendship dynamic. That was all right. House had probably dragged him along by his ear, thinking that it would be fun to torment his duckling and go on vacation with his friend. Though Wilson had patients that were dying and needed his care. That was all right. He'd probably been swept away before he could properly call the hospital, and House had probably stolen his cell phone as a prank. 

She told herself this. Not because she knew it was true, but because the alternative wasn't something she wanted to consider.

"We should get a case," Foreman said as turned a page of his newspaper.

"No," Cameron said, staring down at her cup of coffee. "There's only two of us—it would be next to impossible."

"We need to do something," Foreman said calmly, his voice purely analytical. "You didn't go looking for House last night, did you?"

"No," Cameron said again. "Why would I do that?"

Foreman said nothing, which was an answer in itself. Cameron took another sip of her coffee but got no pleasure from it. She was bored, she was filled with suppressed worry, and she needed to do something before she started going crazy. But doing something would mean acknowledging that... that... So she drank her coffee.

* * *

Wilson had given up thinking a while ago. He wasn't sure how long ago it had been because each second that passed felt as long as a life age, coming and going as long as an eon of eternity. His head was light and his thoughts were disconnected, and Wilson knew, with a clinical sort of detachment, that it was from the lack of food and water that he'd had for the past day or so. However long they'd been down here. 

House had begun to shiver a while a ago and he was too wrapped up in his delirium to notice the situation around him, but the pain in his leg must have been mind-numbing because tears were pouring down his white face and he was rocking back forth slightly. Chase had been sitting with him for the last... A short while. He'd held House's hand and talked to him, reassuring him with a tone that would have fooled no one—except for House, who was teetering on the edge of reason with fever.

On some sick, logical level Wilson knew that it would the smartest thing to do. A sinister voice hissed that House wouldn't even know what was happening to him, he would be too sick to even be aware of his impending death. In fact, at this point in time, House would probably be too sick to recover even in the hospital... But it was so wrong. So twisted. So fucked up.

Wilson had entertained the idea of volunteering himself—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was the damn Head of Oncology! He had a mother and a father and two brothers, he had a dog and dozens of patients that were relying on him. His parents had already survived losing one child, and he couldn't… He just couldn't leave all that behind. What did Chase have? He had no friends, no family, and he was just a lowly fellow under House. His death would almost be insignificant.

Sighing, Wilson shut his eyes and tried to get a little bit of rest and prayed that sleep would give him a way out of this living hell.

* * *

Cameron had taken solace in her clinic duty. She'd left Foreman and his newspaper about forty-five minutes ago, tried to call House's cell phone to no avail, and then retreated down to the clinic to drown out her worries. She was working with a five-year-old boy with what appeared to have the beginnings of strep throat, when her explanation of a throat culture was interrupted by the door opening. 

For a second, she expected to see House standing there, demanding to know why the hell she wasn't upstairs with Foreman, and did she think she was too good for diagnostics, and why was she wasting her time down here? But it was not House. It was Detective Morgan.

He stood in the doorway, looking no different than he had the previous night except that his missing eyebrows were even more prominent in the clinic light. This made him look conspicuous, but it did not change his friendly smile that was directed at her. Cameron gave him a nod, but her mind was busy trying to figure out _why_ he was here.

"Hello, Detective Morgan," she said politely, giving him a warm smile for the benefit of the little boy and his mother. "What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if I could ask you a few questions when you're finished?" Detective Morgan asked, inclining his head towards the woman. "I don't mean to intrude."

"Of course. If you'll just wait outside, I'll be with you in a minute," Cameron said. She waited until the door was shut and Detective Morgan was safely on the other side before continuing her explanation, headed with an apology for the interruption. The woman cooperated, and soon there was a Petri dish down in the lab and a promise to the mother that she would receive a call in a few days about the results.

She opened the door and saw Detective Morgan making idle conversation with a man in the waiting room, while his fingers twirled a leaf that had obviously been torn from the fake plant a few feet from him. When he saw Cameron, he excused himself and came over to her.

"Is there some place more private where we could do this?" Detective Morgan asked as he approached. He discreetly dropped the leaf into the trash can, as if he didn't want Cameron to see the hospital property he'd destroyed.

Cameron signaled to the open exam room.

"It turns out that you were right," Detective Morgan said as he shut the door behind him. "Drs. House, Chase and Wilson are all missing."

"You're sure?" Cameron asked, taking a seat on the stool and bracing herself for bad news. "They haven't been to some hotel in Vegas or something?"

Detective Morgan shook his head, which shone in the light. "We located Dr. House's car at his house, Dr. Wilson's here at the hospital, and Dr. Chase's near his apartment. None of their credit cards show any recent activity."

"All right," Cameron said, even though it wasn't. "You don't have any leads, then?"

Detective Morgan shook his head. Then he removed a notebook from his pocket with a pen and pulled a more serious expression onto his face. "Dr. Chase's car was found vandalized. Did he ever mention having problems with someone?"

Cameron frowned. "No. But if he did, I don't think that Chase would tell me."

"Okay. How about Dr. House? Is there anyone out there who might want to hurt him?" Detective Morgan asked, noting something in his notebook while he spoke.

She bit down on a laugh. "House has a reputation for pissing people off. It makes him happy, I think. But he mostly just annoys people; he doesn't do anything more serious than a practical joke or something. I don't know who would have..."

With a nod, there were further notes taken down in the notebook. "Last year, he was shot by an unidentified male. Do you know of any way that these two events could be related?"

"Not really," Cameron said, wondering how she was supposed to answer this. "We never knew why he was shot. But—but why would he take all three if he only wanted House? That doesn't make any sense."

Detective Morgan shrugged. "Sometimes people do erratic things that make sense only to them. Now, how about Dr. Wilson? Any enemies?"

"I don't know," Cameron said uncomfortably, feeling almost guilty at her lack of knowledge. "I'm sorry... I wish I could tell you more, but none of them were ever open about their lives to me. I probably won't be able to answer half of these questions. You might try Dr. Cuddy, she'll know more—"

"That's all right," Detective Morgan interrupted with a slight smile. "I'll be getting to her later. It's just standard procedure—we need to examine everything in order to get your co-workers back."

"What are the odds of them..." Cameron trailed off, unsure of how to phrase her question. "The statistics. How likely is it that they're still alive?"

"In abductions?" Detective Morgan looked suddenly grim. "Only 65 survive the first hour."

* * *

Wilson woke up to pain. Not sharp pain, but a sort of dull pain that encompassed his entire body and made him quiver—but he quickly realized that he was not trembling from pain, but shivering from cold. His back hurt, most particularly, but as he came to he came to the conclusion that it was probably from laying on the hard concrete for so long. 

"Oh, good," Chase said, relief evident in his voice. "You're awake."

Blearily, Wilson looked around the tiny room and saw that not much had changed since he'd gone to sleep. He almost asked Chase how long he'd been out, but then remembered that none of them really had a way to tell that. Instead, he asked how House was doing.

His response was a look from Chase.

"Did anything happen while I was asleep?" Wilson tried, hoping to elicit an answer this time.

"House peed his pants," Chase said dryly. Wilson suddenly noticed that House was wearing a different pair of pants, and was about to ask where they'd come from when he noticed that Chase was in his boxers.

"Aren't you cold?" Wilson blurted out, and he found himself on the receiving end of another look. All right. Stupid question. "Okay. Anything else?"

Chase shook his head. "Can you take over House for a while?"

"What's there to take over?" Wilson asked. All Chase had been doing was sitting next to him, and it wasn't like human contact would miraculously make House better—if anything, it just made it more likely that they would get sick too.

Looking frustrated, Chase exhaled and tipped his head back so that he was staring at the ceiling. "Just... sit with him. Talk to him. I want to get some sleep, but I hate to see him laying here alone. Please?" At his last word, Chase brought his eyes down so that they were staring directly into Wilson's.

"Sure," Wilson said finally, feeling a little guilty that he was giving Chase such a hard time. He crawled over to House and watched Chase as he stood, stretched, and then sat down where Wilson had been sleeping only moments ago. Chase seemed to fall asleep before his eyes closed.

Turning his attention towards House, Wilson ran his hand over House's forehead and tried to judge a temperature. It was probably 102 or 103, which was not good, but Wilson didn't trust his hand because it was freezing cold, and would judge any body warmth as being extremely hot. Wilson smoothed House's sweaty hair back from his face and took his head onto his lap.

House's eyes cracked open, revealing blue eyes that were bright with fever, and he stared up at Wilson.

"I... thn... m'sick," he said through chapped lips. His voice was gravelly and weak, but it was clear that he was lucid for the first time in hours.

"Yeah, you are, House," Wilson said gently, picking up House's hand and holding it. "You're really sick."

"Don'... need 'spital..." House whispered. "You c'n do i'..."

"You're not in the hospital," Wilson told him in a reassuring tone. "It's just me, you and Chase, buddy. You're going to be fine."

"Kay," House said, and that seemed to be enough for him. His eyes closed and his head lolled back, and in that instant Wilson knew that he could not choose House to die. It would have to be someone else.


	4. Of Defeat

**Author's Notes: **Hello everyone! Good news - I just passed my driver's test! Yay! But... I suppose you don't care, so welcome to my favorite chapter in this entire story, and thank you for everyone who's sticking with me for the next three chapters. I've taken a few liberties with Wilson's parents, as we've seen hide nor hair of them on the show, so... deal. Not much to say, so I'll just shut up and let you read -enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 4  
_(Of Defeat)_  
**

Cuddy was worried. Three of her hospital employees—two of them _department heads_—were missing. Not only was she worried for their safety, but if the media got a hold of this information, her hospital would become a camping ground for reporters. The thought of a dozen reporters gathered about on _her_ front door roasting marshmallows and comparing the juicy details that they'd uncovered made her want to cry. Or throw up. Or perhaps both. She wouldn't stand for a publicized investigation of her hospital.

Cuddy had alerted the police of the three missing doctors, but she'd also asked them to use the utmost discretion during their investigation. Detective Morgan, a strange man with no eyebrows, had assured her that all of his men were nothing but discrete, and she had no choice but to trust in him. She expected that they were roaming about the hospital right now, talking to people. She tried to bring her attention back to her day planner, where she was attempting to lay out her meeting schedule for next week, but her mind was just not into figuring out how she'd managed to schedule a meeting with the Head of Pediatrics at the same time as her conference with the CEO of Princeton General. Cuddy was worrying about House and Wilson and Chase. If House had been running low on his Vicodin yesterday, they would have been all used up by now and he'd be in sheer agony. On the other hand, if it had been full, then the pills might last him through to tonight.

That is, if he wasn't dead yet.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy looked up, relieved for a distraction from her thoughts. However, upon seeing who had entered her office, she had second thoughts about her relief.

"Hello Dr. Cameron," she said, preparing herself. Cameron was either here to go on a moral tangent or to have an emotional breakdown. Neither one was Cuddy particularly feeling like dealing with. But she smiled nevertheless. "How can I help you?"

"Was it you who called the police about..." Cameron choked before she could get the names out, and tears suddenly sparkled in her eyes.

Cuddy nodded. "Yes. They haven't turned up with anything so far, unfortunately, but I'll be sure to keep you updated." There. Problem solved. But Cameron did not leave. It was times like this when Cuddy wished that she could be House, if only for a few minutes, so that she could get people to leave her alone for a while.

"They found Wilson's car here, at the hospital," Cameron said. "They think that something might have happened in the parking lot. They think that someone had this all planned out. For weeks. Someone had been watching them, gathering information like... like some kind of..."

Cuddy nodded again. She'd already heard these theories from Detective Morgan about an hour ago, but Cameron had clearly just been interviewed and discovered this for herself. "Yes, that's right. They told me that they were going to run through the security camera footage at the entrances to see if any of them ever made it inside. There really isn't anything more you or I can do to help. When they have something, I'm sure that they'll tell us right away."

"Have you called their families?" Cameron asked. She seemed to have recovered, for the tears in her eyes had receded and her jaw was set stubbornly, and her eyes watched Cuddy unblinkingly.

"No," Cuddy admitted. It hadn't even occurred to her to do so. But now that Cameron had said it, it sounded like a good idea. In fact, she was almost embarrassed that she hadn't thought of it herself. "I will, though."

Cameron nodded. She opened her mouth to say something more, but then shut it. Anything else she said would be just hot air filling the room.

* * *

Chase was certain that he'd never gone this long without drinking or eating. This wasn't really a fair statement, because he had no idea how long he'd been held captive, but if he had to guess he'd say it had been about three days. Time didn't pass normally for him—sometimes, it would fly by in the beat of a heart, but other times it would drag by, slower than coal turned to diamonds. With a clinical sort of reasoning, he knew that this was because of the lack of food and water, of the lack of warm air and the lack of exercise, but that didn't do him any good. So what if he knew _why_ he felt like shit? 

Across the tiny cell, Wilson was still sitting there with House. He'd asked him to take over, Chase remembered, but how long ago had it been? Minutes? Hours? A day, even? He couldn't remember.

Something wet splashed onto his hand, and Chase was surprised to see that it was a tear. He was crying.

"Chase?" Wilson said softly. He appeared to notice Chase's tears, and his brown eyes were soft with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, bloody fantastic," Chase snapped, his voice completely broken from his lack of use. At Wilson's hurt look, Chase felt regret flicker in his chest. "I'm sorry..." he muttered.

"We can't do this forever," Wilson said, his eyes holding an accusing note.

Chase closed his eyes and tried to ignore Wilson's stare. He knew that he was right, but didn't want to think about it right now. He didn't want to think about who would be dying, who would be left behind in the tiny room while the other two walked away. Just for a little while more, he would put it off.

* * *

Cuddy knew that she had to dial her three employees' families. Technically, she could have handed the job over to the police, but a sense of guilt rose up inside of her whenever she thought about it. These were her _people_—she could make a damn phone call for them. 

The first trouble in this was who to call first. Wilson came from a tight-knit family, with a loving mother and father and a brother, who no doubt would keep her on the phone for an hour or so, pressing for details and seeking comfort. Finding anyone for Chase was going to be wild goose chase (_no pun intended_, she thought with a small smile), for both of his parents were dead and any family he would have lived in Australia. And Cuddy knew House's parents well enough to know that his mother would begin sobbing hysterically and his father would most likely blame House for not standing up to his captor.

She decided to get Wilson's parents out of the way first.

"Hello, Wilson residence, Joseph speaking," a little boy recited, and Cuddy could hear laughter in the background. She felt a stab of guilt as she realized that there was a party going on.

"This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," Cuddy said formally. "May I speak with Chayim Wilson, please?"

"Sure," the boy said. There was rustling sound as the receiver was set down, and Cuddy him holler, "Hey Grandpa! Phone's for you!"

More shuffling on the other end, a man asking Joseph why he was wearing his muddy shoes inside of the house, and then came the thick voice of Chayim Wilson. "Hello?"

"Hello Mr. Wilson," Cuddy said, trying to inject a little pleasure into her voice. "This Dr. Cuddy from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital—your son, James, works for me." Yes, that was right. _Works_. Nothing was concrete yet.

"Yes," Chayim said, sounding a little confused. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes... Mr. Wilson, I'm sorry to say that your son has gone missing," Cuddy said in a rush, logic telling her that if she said it faster, it would lessen the initial shock of pain. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

"Missing?" Chayim repeated blankly, as if he didn't even know the word.

"He, Dr. Gregory House, and Dr. Robert Chase have all been reported missing since yesterday," Cuddy said. "The police are looking into it as we speak, but they haven't found any leads as of yet."

"You say that House character is missing, too?" Chayim asked, and Cuddy knew what he was going to say before the words had even left his mouth. "I always knew that man was trouble—he's probably dragged James off to the Bahamas or something. Just like him to cause all this havoc..."

"No, Mr. Wilson," Cuddy said wearily. "It was not Dr. House who took your son. His car was found at his house, and your son's car was parked here, at the hospital. There hasn't been any activity on their credit cards, either. I'm sorry, but James really has gone missing."

"Let me talk to the officer in charge," Chayim demanded. "This is nonsense. They obviously aren't looking hard enough if they haven't figured out that it was that _House_ who stole James away. Wait a few days and they'll turn up. You'll see. I know my James."

Cuddy opened her mouth to continue arguing with him, but realized that he was as stubborn as Wilson was. She changed tact and tried again. "I don't know where the detective is right now, Mr. Wilson, but if you'd like to come up to the hospital to speak with him, it could be arranged. And this way, if there is any news of James, you will be the first to know."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, and Cuddy waited with baited breath. If this didn't work, she would have to talk to Mrs. Wilson, which she didn't want to do. The subsequent hysterics that would follow might tip the balance of her control, and she couldn't afford to start freaking out right now. Her hospital still needed her, now more than ever.

"Abigail and I will be there soon," Chayim finally said, and Cuddy let out a breath of relief.

"Thank you," she said gratefully.

House was next. She punched in the number that was entered on his Emergency Contact, and waited impatiently while the phone rang. It rang six... seven... eight times, and she tapped her foot while she waiting. But no one picked up, and an answering machine played instead.

"This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital—I'm calling about your son,. Gregory House. Please call me back as soon as you can, it's extremely important that you hear this news."

She set the phone back down on its cradle, leaning back in her chair and fighting the tears that had welled up in her eyes. Everything _would_ be okay.

* * *

"Chase," Wilson said. 

Chase opened his eyes tiredly to look at Wilson. "Yeah?"

"I..." Wilson looked down to House, who was sleeping soundly. "I don't know what to do."

Closing his eyes, Chase forced himself to stop and think. "I don't know either," he said. "It's been too long already." It was only a matter of time until they both got sick, too weak to move or speak, and they would all starve to death down here. The thought of it made Chase shiver, though he told himself that it was just the cold, underground temperatures, and he stared down at the ground.

"We've got to do something," Wilson said, and in that instant Chase hated him for being right.

House was unconscious. Chase knew that he would be too sick to feel pain, to know what was going on, and the thought made him both sick and comforted. He shifted his gaze from House to Wilson, and brown eyes locked onto blue. A beast roared in Chase's stomach as he knew what had to be done. There was simply no other way, and he could not deny it any longer.

* * *

Cuddy had just finished putting the phone down when the doors to her office were opened. She'd just gotten off the phone with Linda Chase—Robert Chase's stepmother, who had apparently never even seen Chase before. She hadn't been able to find anyone to contact for Chase, and she welcomed the distraction from this depressing realization. Especially since it was Detective Morgan. 

"Any news?" she asked right away, not even bothering with a greeting. But Detective Morgan did not even look remotely offended.

"Well," Detective Morgan said delicately, "the security footage shows nothing as of yet." Cuddy looked down to her desk and tried to hide her disappointment. "But we do have something."

Cuddy's head shot up so fast that her neck cracked. "What?"

"An eyewitness. Said that she saw a man force three men matching Drs. House's, Chase's and Wilson's descriptions into the back of a van, at gunpoint." Detective Morgan said this all in a tone that clearly meant that this information was a good thing. "She doesn't remember anything more than a dark van, but it's something that we can go off of."

Cuddy felt the faint stirrings of hope for the first time in over a day, and it caused a wide smile to spread over her face. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much."

* * *

It was Wilson who agreed to do it. Chase sat down on the ground, as far away from House as he could get, and watched Wilson as he stood directly beneath the hatch. There was a tension vibrating throughout the room, like electricity pulsating, and Wilson looked sudden terrified. His eyes bored into Chase's, brown swirled with fear like cinnamon sugar. 

"Do it," Chase whispered, just wanting to get it over with and done. "Just do it."

Wilson tore his gaze away from Chase and swallowed. He nodded to himself.

"Hey?" Wilson called, sounding meek and afraid. When there was no answer, he inhaled and seemed to screw up his courage. "We've—we've made our decision!"

No sooner did the words leave his mouth than there was the familiar sound of metal scraping against metal as the trapdoor was unlocked. Wilson backed away from the area directly underneath it, pressing himself against the wall and watching the hatch with fearful eyes. Chase watched, too, as the metal door was lifted up and blinding white light poured inside of the cell.

He shied away from the light, putting his hand over his eyes and turning away from it while his head spun from the sudden exposure. In the background, he heard two loud clatters, and then the loud bang of the trapdoor being shut again. Blinking to clear his vision of the dancing white spots, Chase looked around frantically to see what had happened.

There was still Wilson and House in the tiny room, and neither one appeared to be dead. House was still sleeping, and Wilson's face had lost all color and was twisted in an expression of horror as he stared at something on the floor.

There on the floor, directly under the closed hatch, lay two axes.


	5. Of Death

**Author's Notes: **Hello everyone! This chapter is going to be explosive, just as a forewarning, and it's also going to flip around a lot. For those of you who have already seen the Criminal Minds episode, I apologize... And to everyone who hasn't, I apologize as well. Just know that I didn't have any intention of writing it so that it so closely mirrored the Criminal Minds plot, it was just the way it unfolded. Blame it on the characters. So, um, enjoy!

* * *

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 5  
_(Of Death)_  
**

Wilson stared at the two axes, feeling as if he were about to faint. There was no way... no _way_... he could ever... Abruptly, he felt sharp bile rise up in his throat, and he choked as he tried not to throw up. The walls of the cell began to flicker and spin radically, and Wilson distantly realized that he had fallen to his knees and was supporting himself with one hand against the wall. It didn't matter. All that he could see was the two axes laying there on the floor, like dynamite, and he could not think.

He had been sure. The decision had been made—he and Chase would go free and House would be killed. Wilson had pictured a gunshot to the head. He'd thought that the man who'd taken them would do it. But never this.

Wilson couldn't do _this_.

He couldn't axe his best friend to death.

"Wilson?"

Wilson jumped as Chase spoke, and some of the dizziness receded. He lifted his head slowly to look at Chase, feeling as if he were staring down a long tunnel, and tried to focus he thoughts. Speech was impossible as he thought that he might vomit still, so he nodded instead.

"Does he want us to—?" Chase stopped speaking as he stared at the two axes on the floor. "To..."

Wilson stared at him, fighting the urge to scream. Did he really need it spelled out for him? He was a doctor, why the hell did he need reassurances and explanations? It was as clear as day what he wanted them to do—how much more obvious could he want it? Short of him opening the hatch and shouting down that if they wanted House dead they'd have to do it themselves, Wilson thought it was pretty damn clear. But Chase was too scared, too damn afraid to just accept it. He wanted him to say it.

Well too bad.

If Chase was too weak to accept it, it was his fucking problem.

* * *

Cameron was sitting in the conference room. Her clinic duty was finished, and she was now counting down the minutes until noon, when she'd been promised an update from the police. Presently, though, it was only ten o'clock. She had two hours to wait. Foreman was now doing his own clinic hours, leaving Cameron to sit alone in the darkness and spare House's office a glance occasionally. She was tempted to go in there and search for something, anything that might lend credence to her theory that he'd run off to Vegas, but knew that it was ridiculous. It was just denial. 

But still, she stared at his office. She wondered where he was, what he was doing right now. His leg must be killing him by now, and even if Wilson and Chase were there with him, there wouldn't be anything they could do to ease his pain. Was he afraid? Was his mouth running, getting him in trouble with whoever had taken him? A picture of House, lying in the back of some van with his eyes shut tightly filled her mind, and Cameron felt tears rise up again. Hadn't House been through enough?

Blinking to clear her vision, Cameron abruptly noticed that the phone inside of House's office was ringing. Her mind was blank for a full three seconds as she stared at it, and then she realized that she should probably answer it. Leaping out of her seat and running into House's office, she grabbed the phone just as the answering machine was picking up and brought it to her ear.

"Hello?" she said breathlessly, using one hand to steady herself against House's desk.

"Greg? Is that you?" a woman's voice asked, sounding extremely surprised.

Cameron frowned, wondering who could possibly be on the phone that referred to House as 'Greg'... Stacy, maybe? "No," she said finally. "This is Allison Cameron—can I help you?"

"Oh, Allison!" the woman exclaimed, sounding embarrassed. "Forgive me, I didn't recognize you at all. This is Blythe House. I received a strange message from Dr. Lisa Cuddy, but she didn't leave a number, so I thought that I'd call Greg. Is he there?"

Cameron's mouth opened in surprise as she realized that Cuddy had called, but hadn't been able to reach House's parents. Which meant that it was now _her_ duty to tell them the awful news.

"Mrs. House, I'm so sorry," she said. "House—Greg has gone missing. He hasn't been seen since yesterday morning. The police are investigating his disappearance along with the disappearance of two other doctors."

There was a long silence, and Cameron bit her lip nervously.

"Mrs. House?" she finally asked, her voice trembling a little.

"I—I'm sorry," Blythe said at last. "Are you... Are you sure?"

Cameron forced down a sigh. "Yes," she said, despite the fact that she was still unwilling to believe it herself.

There was another long silence, and Cameron could hear Blythe breathing into the receiver in ragged breaths.

"Mrs. House, I'm so sorry," she said, her throat tightening as she heard the mother's distress, even over the phone. She couldn't even imagine what Blythe must have been thinking, imagining about her son's welfare. "I don't know what else to say."

"What do I do?" Blythe asked in a small voice, sounding almost afraid to hear the answer. "How do I do this, Allison?"

"I don't know," Cameron sighed, wishing that there would be some concrete answer out there that she could give. "I don't know Mrs. House."

* * *

Facing another long stretch of hunger, Chase was curled up in a ball as he tried to sleep. Hunger came in waves—sometimes, it was just gnawing at the pit of his stomach, and other times, like right now, it felt as if his stomach had turned on itself and had began gnawing on his kidneys. Sharp, shooting pains like he'd swallowed glass made him cringe and pray that it would be over. His throat was dry and screaming for a drink of anything, and most of all, he was _cold_. 

The hunger was almost bearable when he compared it to the cold. He would have taken the hunger over the cold, because at least that _fluctuated_ and gave him a break. The cold was enveloping and though it was worse on the side that he was laying on, penetrated his entire body and made him shiver. He was regretting his decision to donate his pants to House, and considered putting on the soiled pants before the stench nearly made him heave.

Distantly, Chase could hear House. He'd been awake for a while, sitting up and shivering with his eyes wide open, staring at something that no one else could see. He wondered if House realized that a while ago, he and Wilson had thought that they were going to be free. Chase wondered if House heard their arguing and if he could see the two axes that were still laying untouched on the floor.

The human body could go for three days without food or water. But how long had it been? Was the third day nearing, or had only a couple hours passed? He could be laying here at the end of his rope, breaking into the third day of captivity, and he would be dead soon. He couldn't _die_. He had to do something.

Suddenly, the two axes on the floor caught his eye, and a plan began to form in his mind. He had no idea... Would it work? There wasn't enough time, he didn't have enough energy... but that didn't matter. He had to try.

* * *

It was noon. The time of the promised update. 

Cuddy tried not to stare at the clock and forced herself to continue typing a letter to the Dean of Medicine at Johns Hopkins. Cameron was sitting quietly in the chair on the other side of her office, bent over with her face in her hands, waiting for Detective Morgan just as Cuddy was. Apparently Mrs. House had called House's office and had told Cameron that she and her husband would be there as soon as they could. Cuddy also noticed that Cameron's face was freshly scrubbed and that her eyeliner was suspiciously missing, but she made no comment.

Again, she focused on her computer screen and started typing, but the words felt hollow. Incomplete. Her eyes began to re-read lines and she found herself wondering if she'd used the right tense here, or if perhaps 'paltry' was too strong an adjective, and Cuddy sighed in frustration.

"Can't concentrate?" Cameron suddenly asked, startling Cuddy.

Cuddy stared at her in surprise for a moment, debating how to answer, and she finally decided that honesty was the best policy in this situation. "No," she admitted with a sigh.

"I know," Cameron said, lifting her head look at Cuddy. She offered a tired smile. "You keep tapping one foot against the desk—House does it too."

Cuddy blinked in surprise and stopped tapping her foot, but said nothing.

Cameron seemed to take the silence as Cuddy being offended or uncomfortable, because the next words out of her mouth were an embarrassed apology. "People watching is something you pick up with House," she added.

Cuddy nodded. "I know," she said reassuringly. She opened her mouth to say something when the doors to her office suddenly opened, and Detective Morgan walked in.

"Detective Morgan!" Cameron said, jumping out of her chair. She nearly ran over to him, but seemed to restrain herself and then rerouted herself to Cuddy's desk, where she stood and clasped her hands together anxiously.

"Hello," Detective Morgan said, a smile directed at the both of them. "I have news."

"Did you see anything on the security cameras?" Cuddy asked before she could stop herself.

"No," Detective Morgan said, shaking his head slightly. "But we were running over the parking lot and we found two bullet casings. This means that we'll be able to figure out what kind of gun he used. If it's a rarer model, we might even be able to get a list of people who own those guns and figure out if any of them possess a dark van."

"That's if he's registered the gun," Cuddy pointed out, her mind shooting down this possible lead before it could even spark a flare of hope inside of her. "Or if he wasn't using a stolen van."

Detective Morgan seemed slightly deflated, as if he'd hoped that she wouldn't have found these holes, but he blinked and nodded. "Yes, that's right. But we've gotten lucky right now, and it's better than having nothing at all." He gave her a sharp look. "It's best to keep optimistic during times like this."

Cuddy glanced down to her desk, hearing the implied admonishment, but she didn't linger upon it. "Of course," she agreed, meeting Detective Morgan's eyes. "Thank you."

Detective Morgan nodded. "I'm going to go oversee the forensics lab, but I'm leaving six men here—if you have any problems, please call me." He turned to leave.

"You'll call us?" Cameron asked out of the blue. Detective Morgan turned around with a frown on his face, and Cameron quickly elaborated. "If you find anything, you'll call us? Right?"

"Absolutely," Detective Morgan said. This time, when he turned around and started walking out, he was not stopped. He left and carefully made sure that the door shut behind him, and then disappeared from sight.

Cameron exhaled loudly, and Cuddy saw a hint of a smile come across her face. "They'll find them," Cameron said certainly.

Cuddy wished that she could share in that certainty.

* * *

Wilson had his eyes closed, trying to shut out House's mutterings. He wanted to sleep—he wanted to forget everything that was around him and escape, if only for a few hours. His mind's eye was displaying a slightly exaggerated picture of the two axes, making them larger and more sinister-looking so that he was forced to open his eyes to remind himself that the axes did _not_ look like that. 

However, there was only one axe before him.

For one wild moment, Wilson pictured Chase standing behind him, ready to swing the axe and kill him in a single stroke—but then he remembered that it was _Chase_ that he was thinking about. The pacifist. The one in denial. The one who was...

Holding an axe?

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked, pushing himself up on his elbow, ignoring the scraping of skin on concrete as he stared Chase.

"We've got to do something," Chase muttered, sounding half-crazed. He was standing up with the axe in one hand and a resigned expression on his face.

"What are you _doing_?" Wilson repeated, enunciating more clearly this time.

Chase stared at him, and then hefted the axe. "We could escape," he said, and then looked up to Wilson as if daring him to challenge this idea.

Wilson snorted. "And how do you plan on doing _that_? Going to hack your way through the concrete?"

Chase's expression became stubborn. "I'm going to try. I haven't resigned myself to death yet, thanks, so it's worth a shot."

"Look, Chase," Wilson said thinly, "as much as we resemble Nick Cage and Sean Connery, this isn't _The Rock_. No miracles—we're stuck here." He was half-astounded and half-amused that Chase would honestly believe that he could axe his way through concrete walls.

"Shut up," Chase said. "If you're so sure that we're doomed, go ahead and kill House with the other axe! Go on!" He waved his free hand around wildly, and Wilson could hear his erratic breathing from where he lay.

"It's not going to work," Wilson said, losing patience. "There's only one way out of this, and you have to accept that."

* * *

Cuddy managed to finish her letter to the Dean of Medicine at Johns Hopkins, and printed it out. Reading it over, she felt useless. Three of her doctors could be out there, dying, and she was concerning herself with trivial matters such as _grammar_? Where was the sense in that? She should be out there doing something, contributing in some way. But she was Dean of Medicine, and couldn't abandon her job at the drop of a hat. 

Thus somewhat contented, Cuddy read through the letter again and was surprised to find that three of the sentences made no sense whatsoever. As she sat down to edit the letter, she supposed that it shouldn't have been so unexpected.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy looked up and saw an older woman with grey-streaked hair standing next to a large, pot-bellied man with fine, silvery hair. They were holding hands and stood in the entrance to her office nervously.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilson?"

* * *

"Oh, so you've _accepted_ it?" Chase accused, dropping the axe onto the floor with a loud clatter, but he didn't seem to care. "You've decided that it's all right to kill someone else to save your own skin?" 

"Maybe," Wilson said, standing up as he felt suddenly energized with anger. "What's more valuable to you? You have to stop _deluding_ yourself and face the facts, Chase! Someone here is going to die!"

"It doesn't have to be that way," Chase insisted. "If we work together—"

"Oh, bullshit!" Wilson shouted throwing his arms up in the air. "This isn't a fucking movie—there's not going to be a happy ending! Get your head out of your ass, Chase!"

"Then _you_ kill yourself!" Chase yelled, kicking the dropped axe at Wilson. "If you're so fixed on it, go ahead and kill yourself! But you wouldn't be so certain if it was _your_ life we were talking about, would you?"

* * *

Cuddy offered them a seat on her couch and then sat down across from them, noticing the stubborn expressions on their faces. She folded her hands together and remembered that both of them still believed that House was at fault. A stolen glance at the clock revealed that Detective Morgan had only left forty-five minutes ago. It was unlikely that she'd get any phone calls from him so soon. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilson," she began slowly, "I'm so sorry. It's certain now that your son, James, has been kidnapped."

Abigail sat there and said nothing, but Chayim spluttered indignantly.

"How could they possibly know that?" he demanded, his hand gripping his wife's very hard. "Do they have a ransom note? A body?"

Cuddy shook her head mournfully. "No," she told him. "They found an eye witness who saw him and the two other doctors being forced into the back of a van. By a man with a gun. The police found bullet casings in the parking lot."

Chayim opened his mouth, but then slowly shut it and looked over to his wife for support.

* * *

Wilson's jaw dropped. "Kill _myself_? What the hell, Chase? Can't you see that I'm not the one who should die? House is dead whether he gets out of here or not—the fever's too far gone!" 

"You don't know that! How could you know that?" Chase asked wildly, his eyes darting from House to Wilson.

"Maybe it's because I'm a doctor?" Wilson pointed out nastily. "Because _I_ have the common sense to realize that it's better him than me? Don't you understand that? It's _practical!_"

"_Killing isn't practical!_" Chase roared, his words echoing off the concrete walls. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"He has to die, Chase!" Wilson shouted. "Don't you get it? Don't you fucking _get_ it? House is going to die!"

Chase's mouth opened and began spewing out words, but the sounds never reached Wilson's ears. Everything was muted for an eternity, just for a second, and then there was an explosion of pain in the back of Wilson's head. He saw a flash of blinding white light that sent a violent shiver of nausea down to his stomach, and then there was darkness.

There was nothing but darkness.

* * *

Cuddy tried her best to look confident as she looked at the couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, I'm sure that your son is fine and will return to us soon. The police are using all of their resources to find them right now, and they've promised to call when they find something." 

Abigail nodded, and Chayim spoke with a hard edge to his voice. "Of course they'll find him." He squeezed his wife's hand. "We have faith in James."

* * *

Chase saw Wilson's whole head jerk, and his eyes glazed over. Frozen, he watched Wilson's body crumple to the ground and reveal a stunned House, who was standing behind him. He held a bloody axe in one hand, still suspended in the air and dripping blood down to the floor, and his ashen face was splattered with droplets of red. Neither one of them of them moved, seeming to be stopped in time as the realization of what House had done sunk in. He'd overcome the pain in his leg and his sickness. He'd saved himself. He'd saved Chase. 

House had killed Wilson.


	6. Of Disquieting

**Author's Notes: **Well, thank you to everyone for hanging in there throughout this whole story! I really appreciate all of the feedback that I've received, and so a special thank you goes out to every person who reviewed. I'm afraid that I've been busy so my review replies have been... okay, nonexistent, but I apologize. Also, for people who follow these stories, there will a new chapter of Anatomy of a Secret up in a few days, as well as two new chapters for Questions. A final note - for those of you who haven't read my other stories, I have a thing for inconclusive endings. Just as a forewarning. So enjoy!

* * *

**Get Out Alive**

**Chapter 6  
_(Of Disquieting)_  
**

It was dark outside.

Cuddy could have gone home about four hours ago, but she still sat in her office with Cameron, Wilson's parents, and House's mother. Detective Morgan had promised to call her this afternoon, but he had yet to inform her whether the bullets had led to any new leads and it was worrying her. Why would he have forgotten to call her? Part of her wondered if maybe they'd found something and were busy pursuing the lead while it was still hot and hadn't had the time to phone in. But then she reminded herself that this was probably just derived from watching too many seasons of _CSI: Vegas and Without A Trace_.

She hadn't asked Blythe where her husband was anymore than she'd asked Chayim why he hadn't called his other son, Peter, to let him know that his brother was missing and potentially dead. They all of them looked worried for their children, and Cuddy didn't feel like adding to that stress. She did mention to Cameron that, perhaps, she should go home (privately, Cuddy thought she really wasn't close enough to any of the missing men to be in this office). But she let Cameron's refusal go, both because she felt a little sorry for her and because she didn't feel like getting into a fight over something so trivial.

Out of nervousness, Cuddy was eating. It was a horrible compulsion, especially for someone with a metabolism like hers, but the little bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was too alluring to resist. And besides that, she told herself, how could she even _think _of her calorie intake when three of her employees could possibly be dead?

The sun had set a while ago, and the only lights that anyone had bothered to keep on were her desk light and the lamp next to Abigail, and the two lone lights created eerie shadows upon everyone's face. Blythe had a bag that contained a few skeins of yarn and a dozen sets of needles that she'd been working with earlier, but now it sat next to her, all but forgotten. Abigail was twisting strands of her hair between her fingers and murmuring prayers while her husband stared at the ground stonily. Cameron had fallen asleep some time ago.

Cuddy didn't know how her mind would ever let her sleep with the knowledge that somewhere out there, House, Wilson and Chase were being held captive by a lunatic with a gun. That was, if they were still—

But no. They couldn't have been killed. You had to _feel_ something when someone died. How could any of them be dead right now without her knowing? There would be something, some _sign_ that it had happened.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, reaching into the bag and grabbing a pretzel. She was chewing on it and trying to take some comfort from its chocolaty goodness, when the ringing of the phone made her jump and choke on the food in her mouth.

Everyone in the room sat ramrod straight, even Cameron, who had been woken by the phone's ring, and stared as Cuddy gasped for air and reached for the phone. In the dark, her arm flailed about her desk once or twice, and then she finally found it and grabbed the phone.

"Hello?" she said, trying to give her voice some throat, because her tone was suffering from her choking fit.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy sagged in her chair as relief overcame her, aware that everyone was watching her intently. "Detective Morgan," she said.

"Dr. Cuddy, I have wonderful news," Detective Morgan said, sounding immensely pleased with himself. "We've found two of them."

Cuddy's hand went to her mouth as she heard his words. Rapidly, tears began filling her eyes, but she blinked them back. "You did?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Around the room, they were looking anxious to hear what was going on, but Cuddy barely registered this. "Are you sure? Are they okay?"

A chorus of gasps went around the room.

"We're routing to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital right now," Detective Morgan said. "I'll explain more when I get there. My men are continuing to look for the third one as we speak, so don't worry. He'll be nearby."

"I'm sorry?" Cuddy said, her mind going blank as she tried to figure out what Detective Morgan was talking about.

"We only found two of them, Dr. Cuddy," Detective Morgan said slowly, and he sounded almost hesitant to repeat this. "Dr. Wilson is still missing."

* * *

It took no more than twenty minutes for House and Chase to arrive at the hospital—Cuddy made a note to speak to her ambulance crew about their speed—and by that time, the entire crew of people from her office had relocated down to the ICU and were waiting anxiously. They watched through a plastic curtain as both of the returned were hooked up to IV lines and blood was taken from preliminary testing. The words 'nutrition' and 'hypothermia' could be heard being thrown back and forth between various nurses and doctors. Even Cuddy did not get in the way. 

When the rush had passed, Blythe was allowed in to see her son, but Cuddy and Cameron were not allowed as neither was a relative or a medical proxy. Frustrated, Cuddy hung back with Cameron and Wilson's parents until Detective Morgan arrived.

"Have they found Wilson yet?" was Cuddy's first question, before Detective Morgan could say a word.

"No, not yet," Detective Morgan said with a grim face. "We'll be talking with the other two as soon as they wake up—they should be able to tell us something about James and his condition, if not his whereabouts."

Cuddy nodded, glancing at the curtain-veiled room where Blythe was busy with her son. Even through the translucent plastic, she could see her shoulders shaking with sobs of relief and felt a surge of empathy towards her. "Okay," she said quietly."

"Why aren't they awake?" Chayim asked, his voice edged with impatience and anger. "Can't they wake one up? We need to find out where James is—they can tell us! James could be dying right now!" Abigail shuddered and looked down at the ground. "He needs help! Wake them _up!_"

"I'm sorry," Detective Morgan said, shaking his head. "Dr. House was discovered extremely sick, and he's delirious beyond giving a coherent answer. Dr. Chase was hit on the head with something has to regain consciousness on his own. There isn't anything more that we can do."

"Where did you find them?" Cuddy asked, taking the information about House's and Chase's conditions in stride. She would process it later, when she had the time and the privacy to think about it.

"A city called Straighton about five hours south of here—it's a farming community, not much more than a grocery store and a bar or two. Just found by a man and his son, laying unconscious; no one saw them dropped off or come in so far. We're still interviewing people, off course, but—"

"We could wake Chase up," Cameron whispered, but everyone heard her.

Cuddy turned around to stare at her, surprised. She'd almost forgotten that Cameron was there because she hadn't said anything throughout the entire conversation. "What?" she asked, wondering if Cameron was about to suggest what she thought she was about to suggest.

"We could wake up Chase," Cameron said a little louder, appearing flustered. She obviously hadn't intended for the entire group to hear her. "Where on his head was he hit?"

"Cameron, if he wakes up and his brain hasn't fully recovered, the damage to his brain could potentially—" Cuddy started, shocked that _Cameron_ of all people would suggest this. It was vaguely Housian. She shocked further when Cameron interrupted her.

"The risk is minimal," Cameron said patiently. "Chances are, he'll just have a huge headache. If it works, we could save Wilson." She folded her arms across her chest, looking determined to get her way on this matter.

Cuddy let out an exasperated sigh. "Who's his medical proxy?" she asked, knowing that Cameron had been around House way too long to be talked out of this.

"House," Cameron said promptly.

Cuddy bit on the inside of her cheek as she stared at Cameron's stubbornly-set face, and then to Chayim and Abigail, who were both watching her with hopeful eyes, and then finally to Detective Morgan, whose expression was as torn as Cuddy's was. Finally, he seemed to resign himself and nodded slightly. Sighing, Cuddy turned to Cameron. "Okay," she said. "Go ahead and do it—and tell him to pick a _different_ medical proxy while he's awake."

* * *

Chase was in the same curtained-off area as House (they were still in the ICU), but he was on the opposite end. Both were pale and haggard looking, Chase with dark circles under his eyes and patterns of bruising around the right side of his face, and House with a split right cheek as well as an intubation tube down his throat. Cameron sent a sympathetic glance at House, knowing that he would have made fun of her for it if he were awake, and then turned her attention towards Chase. She felt bad for having to wake him up, but felt worse knowing that somewhere, Wilson was out there in the same condition. Maybe even worse. 

Taking a deep breath, Cameron pulled the syringe out of her lab coat pocket and picked up Chase's IV line and poised it between her fingers. The push line was being occupied by a nutrition syringe that was no doubt being left in so that it could be pushed when necessary without bothering to have to remember a new one each time. So instead she injected the shot of epinephrine directly into the line and waited for it to kick in.

Immediately after her plunger hit the bottom, Chase's breathing hitched under his oxygen mask and his chest rose sharply. Cameron slid the needle out of the direct line. The heart monitor spiked slightly, and she watched as his heart rate sped up. His hand began to tremble and the muscles in his face twitched, and then finally, his eyes cracked open. Cameron could hear the deep, shuddering breath that he took even through the mask, and she saw his eyes dart around the room wildly until they finally landed on Cameron.

He turned his head slightly so that he could look at her better, but as soon as he did, his eyes became unfocused and stared off into the distant.

"Chase?" Cameron said quietly, taking his hand. "It's me. Cameron. Do you remember me?"

Chase closed his eyes and his hand tugged back weakly, as if he were trying to free himself from her grasp but didn't have the energy.

"Chase," Cameron pleaded, "I have to talk to you. I know that it hurts. I need… You're in the hospital with House, but they haven't found Wilson. We need your help to find him. Chase, you're the only one who can save him! Please."

When Chase opened his eyes again, they were bloodshot and shone with unshed tears. His eyes met hers as he shook his head a fraction of an inch.

"Chase!" Cameron couldn't believe it—what was _wrong_ with him? "Don't you understand? They have no idea where Wilson is! He could by dying! You've got to _help_ Chase!"

Again, Chase shook his head and then he closed his eyes, clearly wanting her to go away so that he could sleep.

Cameron choked on her breath for a moment as she realized that Chase wasn't going to tell her. She took a staggered step backwards, unable to believe that someone that she'd worked alongside with for nearly three years would be capable of doing this, so unexpectedly and selfishly. All they needed to do to save Wilson was get Chase to talk, but he _wouldn't_. Why not? Why didn't he want to talk about Wilson?

* * *

Detective Morgan had only worked a handful of missing persons cases in which the person had actually been kidnapped, and had not just run away or gotten eloped. The select few that he had taken, he hated. It was a never-ending game of hide a seek, and he was never allowed to hide. He was always the seeker, forced to stand there with his hands over his eyes while counting to one hundred and not allowed to move or sneak a peek. The hiders had no such rules. They ran amuck like heathens, giggling and scurrying as they looked for new and challenging places to hide. Then when the counting was through and the muffled laughter had subsided, he was forced to search every hiding place he knew with no other tactic other than guessing and checking. He was at the disadvantage and knew, with building frustration-induced rage, that everyone else was laughing at him for guessing wrong yet again. 

It was sadistic and torturous and never seemed to end.

But there was one part that he enjoyed about being the seeker.

The look of capture when they realized that he'd found them, that they had nowhere to run and had no choice but to admit defeat. The look that, sometimes, made everything worth it.

But they had not found the man yet. They had found the third man at long last with an axe embedded in the back of his skull, laying atop a concrete hatch that was splattered with dried blood. This frustrated the hell out of him, knowing that somewhere out there, a person was walking free after murdering someone. Someone was breathing free air and carrying about their business while this man lay dead. This James Wilson had suffered to the end because _he_, Detective Jensen Morgan, hadn't been smart enough, hadn't been fast enough, hadn't been clever enough to find his killer in time. But that was not permanent.

If it was the last thing he did, Detective Morgan would find James Wilson's murderer and make him pay for what he'd done.

In spades.


End file.
